Playing with Bonbon Fire

by Dorothy St. James

  Playing With Bonbon Fire

  A SOUTHERN CHOCOLATE SHOP MYSTERY

  Dorothy St. James

  For Jim.

  (I think I might love you more than chocolate.)

  Acknowledgments

  Whom do I acknowledge first? That’s easy. Bonbons. They’re darn difficult to make. At least they are for me. Writing this book caused hours of frustration in the kitchen and way too many additional inches around my middle. Yeah, thanks for that, bonbons.

  The next round of thanks goes out to the two women who rescued me from my bonbon disasters. Holly Herrick, author of the most delectable cookbooks, brainstormed with me and shared knowledge of how to craft a chocolate bonbon that even someone like me could handle. Fabulous mystery author Linda Lovely was kind enough to share with me some of her tried-and-true family bonbon recipes, especially a version of the cherry bonbon recipe that shows up at the end of this book. Thank you!

  Also, since we’re talking about talent in the kitchen, I need to thank Michael Hoffman, the bean-to-bar chocolate artisan behind Bitte Chocolate in Charleston, SC, for spending an afternoon teaching me all about the delicious chocolate-making process and patiently answering all of my silly questions. If you find yourself in Charleston, buy one of his chocolate bars.

  Let me give an extra special shout out to musician Stan Yeager of Yeager Park for answering my questions about beach music, shagging, and band life. He’s a great guy and nothing like the Stan in this book.

  A big shout-out to my agent, Jill Marsal, for believing in my series, and to my talented editor, Anne Brewer (and to all the folks at Crooked Lane Books). I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: y’all make publishing a book fun.

  I’d also like to thank the incredible authors in the Lowcountry Chapter of Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Mystery Writers of America, especially Vicki Wilkerson Gibbins, Cynthia Cooke, Amanda Berry, Nina Bruhns, Dianne Miley, Nicole Seitz, and Judy Watts for patiently listening as I worked through the sometimes bumpy process of writing.

  Finally, a million thanks to Jim and Avery. These books are for you and wouldn’t happen without you. I love you.

  Chapter 1

  “This can’t be right.” I frowned at the sagging chocolate lumps. Oily cheddar cheese mixed with bits of pretzel leaked out of what were supposed to be perfectly formed chocolate bonbons.

  “Penn, did you follow Mabel’s recipe?” Bertie Bays asked. She was my temporary partner and the only one with any cooking ability. She stood beside me in the back kitchen of the Chocolate Box, her dark, time-worn hands clasped behind her back. “Why do they smell”—she wrinkled her nose—“like scorched wet dog?”

  “I don’t know,” I wailed. “I did everything the recipe said. I’m sure I did.”

  “They don’t look right.” Bertie walked away.

  “Thanks for pointing that out. I hadn’t noticed.” Was she going to leave me to figure this out alone?

  “They should be coated in the chocolate. And round. They definitely should be round.” She took her apron from a peg behind the kitchen door and slipped it on over her head.

  “I’ve seen bonbons before,” I said rather defensively.

  She sighed. “We’ll have to start again. There’s no saving this batch.”

  This wasn’t the first time I’d ruined one of Mabel’s chocolate recipes. I’d spent months working with the group of islanders who’d each been taught one of the Chocolate Box’s signature candies. When I worked with someone knowledgeable, the recipe worked. But whenever I tried my hand at crafting any of the chocolate recipes myself, it came out wrong.

  It made me feel wrong, like I didn’t belong here.

  Mabel Maybank, the maternal grandmother I’d barely gotten to know before she died, had entrusted me with the Chocolate Box in her will. She was the one who’d spent years teaching her recipes to the group of eccentric islanders so they could in turn teach me after her death. The shop had been in Mabel’s family for three generations. The building that housed it as well as a surf shop and two apartments upstairs had survived hurricanes, floods, and economic downturns.

  But would it survive me?

  Mabel should have given the shop to someone who had more than a marketing degree. She should have found a master chocolatier who possessed the instinct and skill for making truffles and bonbons and candies that lived up to her legacy of crafting symphonies of flavors. I had no right to be here.

  Bertie put a steadying hand on my shoulder. “You’re trying too hard, child.”

  “How can that be? I manage to ruin every recipe I attempt. Clearly, I’m not trying hard enough.”

  She shook her head so vigorously it almost knocked the bright pink flowered bandana from her hair. The older woman had impeccable fashion sense, choosing tailored suits and dresses that flattered her curvy frame. That is, except when she came to work at the Chocolate Box. I don’t know what happened to her mind when she picked out her work clothes. I suppose she dressed for comfort. Old jeans. Cheap white sneakers. And graphic tees. Today’s pale pink tee featured a large camellia bloom with the words “Camellia Beach” in curlicue text sprawling across her chest.

  She straightened the neon pink flowered bandana on her head to hold back her short salt-and-pepper hair.

  I wondered if I should dress more like her, in sensible clothes. I glanced at my reflection in the metal mixing bowl. While the tailored cream suit with pencil skirt and matching heels looked great on my tall, boxy frame and was perfect for working in an office, did it constrain my cooking? Was my wardrobe the problem?

  Bertie should know what clothes worked best for the kitchen. She’d been Mabel’s partner in the shop for decades. When Mabel had willed the shop to me, I’d tried for days to convince Bertie to take it. After all, she already knew how to turn Mabel’s rare Amar cacao beans into a dark chocolate candy that thrilled the senses. Most of her truffles came close to matching Mabel’s masterpieces. People drove in from the nearby City of Charleston just to buy Bertie’s sea salt chocolate caramels.

  But she hadn’t wanted the shop. She often talked about retiring and moving to a posh retirement community in Florida. I didn’t know what I’d do if she ever decided to actually leave. And yet I couldn’t depend on Bertie’s talent in the kitchen forever.

  “I’m afraid no matter how hard I try, I’ll never learn how to make a proper chocolate candy.”

  “Be patient with yourself. It’ll come.” She made a wide gesture that took in the entire shop. “Whether you believe it or not, this is where you belong.”

  Oh, how I wished that were true. I’d searched my entire life for a place of my own, a place I could call home. Could Camellia Beach really be that place?

  My gaze traveled back to the charred chocolate blobs. “But … but … I can’t even …”

  “Now don’t get yourself worked up. We have too much that needs to get done today. We don’t have time for you to panic and start running around like a wet hen.” It seemed as if Bertie had spent most of the past five months warning me not to panic.

  But how could I not panic? I’d promised Congressman Trey Ezell that I’d provide him with several dozen of Mabel’s sweet and savory bonbons for the booth he’d rented on the pier during tonight’s first concert in Camellia Beach’s inaugural Summer Solstice Beach Music Festival. The congressman had recently become one of the shop’s biggest supporters.

  Without a healthy infusion of cash, the Chocolate Box would have closed shortly after I inherited the shop. Although I had a trust fund from my father’s side of the family, Grandmother Cristobel had set it up in such a way that it was nearly impossible to access the money. I had to submit requests to the trustees of the fund. T
hose trustees answered to Cristobel, who didn’t have a high opinion of my financial acumen. In the past, most of my requests for a withdrawal had been denied. Because of that, I hated asking them for the money that was actually mine. It made me feel like a beggar. But the shop meant so much to me that I’d swallowed my pride and submitted a request to the trustees shortly after taking ownership of the Chocolate Box. While I waited for an answer, the bills continued to pile up.

  Congressman Ezell had come to my rescue. He’d assisted me in securing a small business loan that allowed me to pay the bills while I got the shop up and running again. And now that he’d decided to run for U.S. Senate, he’d turned to the Chocolate Box to provide snacks for his events and to also serve as an example of the successful local businesses his campaign supported.

  He deserved better than unappetizing lumps of chocolate and cheese.

  And, as if keeping Ezell happy wasn’t enough, I also had work to do for the beach music festival, which I’d been spearheading to attract visitors to the island and boost sales at local businesses. Planning demanded hours of my time. I’d even agreed to pick up the festival’s headliner from the airport later that day. There weren’t enough hours in the day for me drive to the airport and make (and hopefully not ruin) yet another batch of bonbons. The copper bell hanging over the shop’s front door chimed, a reminder that we also had a shop to run.

  “Customer,” Bertie sang out. Her brown eyes sparkled with a zest for life. “You handle the front counter, and I’ll see if we have enough ingredients to make another batch of savory bonbons for the congressman.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” I wiped my hands on a damp cloth and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Running away—that’s what I did best. Only I was trying not to run anymore. After fleeing from a bad breakup in Madison, Wisconsin, I’d stayed in Camellia Beach to manage Mabel’s shop. I’d even stayed to make friends with the same residents I’d once accused of murder. But really, was it such a crime to run from these horrid chocolate creations? I hoped Bertie would clean up all evidence of their existence before I returned.

  The front of the Chocolate Box was divided into two sections. One side was devoted to glass display cases where a wide variety of chocolate truffles and bonbon were offered for sale. The other side of the shop served as an informal café. Half a dozen round tables and metal chairs, two sofas, and a counter with a self-serve coffeemaker created a cozy, air-conditioned place for locals and tourists alike to grab a quick breakfast or relax after a long day at the beach.

  The time between the breakfast rush and the afternoon crowd was usually slow, but tourists occasionally stopped by to buy edible souvenirs. I plastered on my best saleswoman smile and paused to compose myself at the doorway before heading out into the front of the shop.

  “Hello? Am I in the right place?” a man called out. “This can’t be the right place. What’s that awful smell? Burnt cheese?”

  I recognized that voice. Any woman in the world would recognize that voice. My heart skipped a couple of beats as I jogged through the doorway.

  “Bixby?” What in the world was he doing here? His plane wasn’t supposed to arrive until this afternoon. He shouldn’t be in the state yet, much less in my shop.

  “Bixby?” I’d expected larger-than-life. I’d expected screaming crowds. What I found standing just a few steps inside the doorway of the Chocolate Box was an ordinary guy dressed in ordinary jeans and a plain gray T-shirt.

  The last time I’d seen him, he’d been wearing heavy stage makeup, tight leather pants, a designer label ripped shirt, and my half sister on his arm. His dark brown eyes had looked sharp, almost vicious.

  Though his features resembled the famous singer’s, it couldn’t be him. His brown eyes were relaxed and happy. His face was too cleanly shaven. And what self-respecting rock star would wear new white sneakers? They were the cheap kind that Bertie liked to buy from a discount chain store.

  “Bixby?” I whispered.

  He leaned toward me and whispered back, “Yeah?”

  His soulful eyes met mine.

  I chuckled. “You’re not Bixby Lewis.”

  That’s right. The Bixby Lewis, winner of six Grammy Awards and pop star sensation, had agreed to perform at Camellia Beach’s dinky concert festival. He was flying in from California to spend an extended weekend on this little spit of sand on the coast of South Carolina as a favor to my half sister.

  Tina had dated him, and they’d parted on good terms. Unlike me, Tina was an expert at leaving men and leaving them happy.

  “I’m hurt.” He clutched his chest. “You really don’t recognize me?”

  “Of course I recognize you. But … but you’re not supposed to be here. Not yet.” Unless I’d gotten his flight information wrong. Had I left a megastar like Bixby stranded at the airport? “Tell me you weren’t waiting for me to pick you up.”

  “Tina told me you’d say that when you saw me.” He laughed and then swept me up in his arms and spun me around. Even my legs came off the floor, which totally surprised me. I was at least half a foot taller than him. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

  “I … I …” I stammered, not sure what I was trying to say. His spinning me around must have spun my brain clean out of my head.

  He laughed again. “Do you always sputter like that? Or is it something you do just for me?”

  He set me down and planted a huge kiss on my lips.

  When he released me, I staggered back a step. Had that really just happened? Had one of most eligible bachelors in the country just kissed me?

  “Did … did I forget to pick you up at the airport?” I stammered, apparently unable to stop myself.

  He kissed me again, a quick peck on the lips. “Stop worrying and stop with all that freaking sputtering. I took an earlier flight and rented a car.”

  “You … you …” I bit down on my tongue. Hard. That seemed to fix the stuttering problem. “You took an earlier flight? Why?” And why had he just kissed me … twice?

  “Changing up my schedule keeps the crazies on their toes.”

  “Crazies?” I asked. “What do you mean, crazies?”

  Before he could answer, the front of the shop exploded.

  Chapter 2

  Bixby grabbed my shoulders and tossed me to the ground. He then landed on top of me, using his body to shelter mine as glass shattered all around us.

  In the ringing silence I peeked out from under Bixby’s arm, expecting to see all kinds of wreck and ruin. Thankfully, only the plate glass window we’d been standing next to had been shattered. Everything else in the shop looked fine.

  “What in tarnation is going on out here?” Bertie demanded as she sprinted into the room.

  I wiggled out from under Bixby and jumped to my feet. He scrambled to his feet as well. “Sorry,” he said.

  I was too busy trying to figure out what had happened to ask him what he had to be sorry about. Had a bomb gone off?

  No, not a bomb. Among the shattered glass cubes scattered on the floor all around us was a fist-sized rock.

  “Someone must have tossed that through the window,” Bertie said, pointing at the jagged chunk of granite.

  I shook my head in disbelief. “It sounded like an explosion.”

  “That’s because we were standing too close to the window when it shattered,” Bixby said, as if these kinds of things happened to him every day.

  A sheet of college-lined notebook paper had been fastened to the rock with several pink rubber bands. I picked it up, removed the rubber bands, and unfolded the paper until it lay flat on the nearest display case.

  With Bertie and Bixby leaning over my shoulder, I read the note. Someone had written in big looping script, “I will see you burn.”

  “Ah, just as I thought.” Bixby reached around me and plucked the paper from the counter. “That’s for me,” he said as he crumpled it.

  “Someone is trying to kill you?” I squeaked.

  “I get these
all the time. Rabid fans who believe they’re in love with me. It’s never anything to worry about. I’ll pay for the glass.”

  “Nothing to worry about? Nothing to worry about?” How could he say that? I was already worried. “Are you sure you’re the target? As you’ve already said, no one should know you arrived into town early.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not like anyone would be after you.”

  “That’s not true,” Bertie was quick to come to my defense. “Penn has plenty of enemies.”

  “You do?” Bixby’s thick black brows shot up into his shaggy hairline.

  “Even though Grandmother Cristobel pretends I don’t exist, I’m still part of the rich and powerful Penn Empire.”

  My father, who was in college at the time, had foolishly gotten a fortune teller pregnant with me. Since coming to Camellia Beach, I’d come to the conclusion that the fortune teller—a woman I’d never met—was probably Mabel’s eldest daughter. She’d run away from home decades ago, never to be seen again by any of her family. After giving birth to me, she’d followed that pattern by handing me over to my college-aged father and had disappeared from his life as well.

  Try as I might, I’d been unable to find Mabel’s missing daughter, Carolina. Not that anyone in my family had lifted a finger to help me. My existence remained an embarrassment that they’d rather deny than accept.

  “While my father’s family does everything in their power to keep me away from any kind of money or privilege, there have always been people in my life plotting to use me to get their hands on my family’s fortune,” I said.

  “And, honey, that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Bertie added. “She’s—”

  “He doesn’t need a full accounting of my troubles,” I said, not wanting to put voice to the thought that the shop and my place in Camellia Beach could suddenly be jerked away from me. Was it possible? Would someone from my mother’s side of the family threaten to burn the shop to the ground?

  Mabel’s children had vowed to do everything in their power to overturn the will in order to get control of the Chocolate Box, including this building as well as its supply of rare cacao beans. Led by her oldest son, the formidable lawyer Edward Maybank, her children had contested the will. The proceedings were still making their way through the courts.